


Comfort

by crocodile_eat_u



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Angst, Child Abuse, Childhood, Family, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Memories, Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-04-10
Updated: 2012-04-10
Packaged: 2017-11-03 09:59:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/380147
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/crocodile_eat_u/pseuds/crocodile_eat_u
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For a prompt on the meme- <i>Douglas' father, contrary to popular belief, was not a good man - and Douglas certainly wasn't the apple of his eye.</i></p>
<p>
  <i>The crew somehow (whether through emotional confessions, revelation of resulting scars, a confrontation with Daddy-Dearest, all of the above or none of it) discover this. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comfort

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: Allusions to physical and emotional child abuse. 
> 
> Disclaimer: Do not own, created by the wonderful and gorgeous John Finnemore <3

**Comfort**

He remembers him sometimes. Occasionally the thought crops up in the back of his mind, just lingering for a moment before drifting away in a wispy puff of smoke. 

He pretends it never happened. That he never actually thought about him. That he wasn’t remembering his face, those impossibly dark eyes and his large, hard hands. When the thought occurs and his memories clog together into a mesh of confusion to try and block it out before he registers it’s there, he sees his face randomly and frowns, unable to discern where exactly it came from. 

Because by now, Douglas Richardson is certainly over it. He is. Thirty years, a third of that passing in a blur of smoky bars and pounding hangovers; his throat burning and burning and burning as that amber liquid passes down like nectar. Or piss. 

He tries not to think about that either. 

His wives didn’t know. But maybe that was the problem, the secrets, the skeletons hidden in the closets, under the bed, in the boot of his Lexus. Anywhere he could hide them, you were sure to find those old bones creaking, pointing their frail, withered fingers at him and screaming all they knew. 

And yet all three women passed through his life, blissfully ignorant. He liked to think they had their suspicions, maybe when he awoke, half asleep and covered in sweat. Or when he awoke, half asleep and covered in urine. Or when he awoke, half asleep and covered in tears. 

They never asked though, the darlings. And he never told. He was comforted by their apparent embarrassment to his situation, taking small pleasure in the fact that they would never find it within themselves to care enough to inquire what exactly happened those many years ago. 

And he wanted to keep it that way- keep the routine as fastidiously clean as possible. Douglas had secrets, but don’t you try to care for them. 

That was of course, before MJN Air. Before the irritating interest they had in each other, the way they clicked, like a family. Like a family who didn’t hate each other’s guts. Something happy. 

Douglas’ family didn’t hate him, he didn’t think they did. Nick, his brother, got along swimmingly with him and that was fine, perfect. As long as he didn’t ask what happened in that room with dad. Or why he found Douglas crying that night. Or why Douglas always changed in the bathroom afterwards. 

It was easier to hide the bruises that way. And Nick didn’t need to know. He was just a kid. He had their mother, their beautiful mother who preened herself like a peacock in front of the mirror, blissful with the thought that at least her sons _looked_ alright. 

Douglas hated her. And on some occasions, more so than his father. She laid not a hand on him, did not say anything. But neither did she do anything to help. And it hurt more than if she had slapped him. 

He looks out to the left, seeing the terminal chock full of bumbling people, the drone of chatter like static in his mind. He can see Nick’s face clearly in his mind’s eye- _Mum wants to see you._

_She’s dead to me._

Of course, he didn’t say this, didn’t hiss this into the receiver when Nick phoned all those years ago before the _bitch_ went and died as if she was the most tragic thing in the world. 

He runs a hand over his eyes, his temples throbbing with the onslaught of a headache, surprised at how bitter he still is toward it all. 

He thought he was over it. He was _supposed_ to be over it. 

And yet when he sees Arthur’s face crumble, Gordon striding off and leaving his son clutching that bottle of gin like it’s a lifeline to anything salvageable of their relationship, he can’t help but remember that feeling, that achingly loneliness and hurt. 

He sees _his_ face again, and wants to kill Gordon. Wrap his fingers around that fat throat and squeeze until there’s no life left. 

But he can’t...not for Arthur, no. Arthur wouldn’t want that. 

He looks at the man later, when they’re in the portacabin back in Fitton, nursing tea while Carolyn and Martin have a quick check over GERT-I. Sometimes, Douglas thinks he can see himself in him, in the way Arthur reacted to seeing Gordon, both equally elated and terrified. He remembers feeling that way once- when his father was the best thing in the world. When he didn’t reek permanently of alcohol, brandy on his breath when he snarled at Douglas. 

Faintly, his mother’s voice rings in his head- _He just likes a drink or two, it’s not a problem._

Like father like son. 

And that is his worst fear, ever being associated with the man other than that they happen to be related. He’s not his father.

Arthur is talking, and belatedly, Douglas realises it’s to him. 

“So what’s your dad like Douglas? Was he brilliant?”

Douglas pauses, thinking about this as he looks at his tea, vaguely glimpsing the first shapes of his face in the brown liquid. It’d be so easy to lie, so easy to make something up, give himself a family worth something, worth being proud of. A father who didn’t terrify him. A mother who actually cared. 

But he realises that he doesn’t have to make one up, that in some way, he already has one. 

He looks at Arthur, inexplicably tired. “No Arthur...he wasn’t brilliant. Far from it actually.”

The man looks disappointed. “Oh. That’s a shame.”

Douglas nods. “It is a shame isn’t it?”

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why wasn’t he brilliant?”

He wants to ask if he really cares, if Arthur really wants to know, or if he’s just being polite. And then he realises that this is _Arthur_ , and he sees the light dim behind the man’s eyes as he recognises the exhaustion in Douglas’, the fatigue that comes from years of oppression, of secrets, of skeletons clinging to your back. 

So he talks. “Because he was an awful man.” And he talks and he talks until his throat is sore, and his eyes are wet. And if he feels a hand on his shoulder, or a knee pressing against his, it doesn’t matter. It’s not pity, or embarrassment, or shock. 

It’s comfort. 

Fin

 

A/N- Thanks for reading. :3


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